


Tartarus

by spnhell



Series: Persephone [1]
Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Fragmented Writing, M/M, Poetry, Seven Deadly Sins, Suggestive smut, TW: Blood, emotional map
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:06:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5208653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnhell/pseuds/spnhell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrath was honesty, unwillingly torn instead of wilfully given. It was secrets being spilled and truths being shared as lightning flashed. It was a chasm, the gaping void it rent between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tartarus

**_We sin as devils do_ **

 

Past

_i. Envy (Dean)_

 

Envy was fire, heat and anger boiling in his blood and licking at his flesh. Ash kindling in his stomach as butterflies were smoked out and replaced with fuel for desire. 

 

 

Envy was watching Aidan leave pieces of himself all over set, his fingerprints on his mug and his laughter in other people’s ears. It was the seeds of lust, but also of self-doubt and unjustifiable hatred towards those he called friends. It was _jealousy,_ wanting what wasn’t his and what could never be. It was wanting to take Aidan’s phone and hold it to his own ear, if only for the echo of the sound of his laughter. It was wanting to smash Aidan's mug so no one else could ever taint the traces of his touch, the ghost of his breath on the rim. It was wanting to cut his hand on the shards and run the wound over what’s left, to let his blood pick up a piece of Aidan and carry it through to his heart.

 

 

Envy was irrationality in it’s purest form.

 

 

Envy was wanting to destroy, to erase anything that held a part of Aidan and take it all for himself. Envy was _wanting,_ in every sense of the word. It was white hot jealousy and cool dark self-hate. _Not good enough, not enough._

 

 

Envy was waiting, a simmering pot ready to boil.

 

 

Envy was a live wire. It left him raw and exposed and spitting at every frisson of energy, at every furtive glance and graze of flesh that could be twisted until his mind screamed _reciprocated_. It was wanting to corrupt, to pull Aidan into the pit of fire and devour. It was possession, a need to take and claim and let everyone see what was his. 

 

 

Envy was irony, the heat of the flames and yet still the desire to _drown._ To plunder and indulge and never come up for air. It was dark, debauched; irrational and depraved. A barrage of thoughts that could not be silenced, the distortion of simple gestures and innocent thoughts until he felt it beginning to change him. 

 

 

Envy was meant to be green, clouding his thoughts and seeping into his vision. But all he could see was _red._

 

 

Envy was a tease _,_ the knowledge that even if he could _have_ he wouldn’t be able to _keep._ It was despair, destruction from the inside out. And worst of all, it was the deep-seated realisation that there was no escape.

 

* * *

 

_ii. Pride (Aidan)_

 

Pride was stone, cool and unforgiving. A faceless mask, marble on the outside. 

 

 

Pride was walls crumbling in silence, tucked away at the back of his mind while the exterior laughed on. It was never being able to ask for help, never being able to cave to his feelings. It was never being able to _admit._

 

 

Pride was a lie, carefully crafted. It was throwing away the keys to the locked box inside of him who's contents were spreading like black ink through his brain. It was ignoring the tightening in his gut when sandy hair and blue eyes filled his vision. It was _denial,_ an unwillingness to accept a truth he’d tried to defy. It was a mask, worn to please others in the hope that eventually it would stain his face and forever remain enough. 

 

 

Pride was falling apart when alone, hands scraping along skin. It was trying to tear the skin from his bones, to turn himself inside out and find out what went wrong on the inside. It was _fear,_ unbridled and unchecked, like a poison in his veins. It was bitterness, acrid in his mouth as his mind rebelled and his body raged. 

 

 

Pride was a cold hand wrapped around his neck, tightening until he couldn’t breathe.

 

* * *

 

 

_iii. Wrath (Dean & Aidan)_

 

Wrath was inevitable.  

 

 

Wrath was a swelling storm set on the path for destruction. It was rolling clouds and rumbling thunder as anger lashed upon the windowpanes. It was accusations and rebuttals, denial battling desire.

 

 

Wrath was pain, heart wrenching and violent. It was knuckles cracking as fist met bone, shocked stares etched on faces as breaths gasped wet and heavy. It was electrifying, sizzling across every fibre, clouding every thought. It was agony, leaving them wretched and shaking as hands balled and the world continued on outside. It was the stinging reality raining down upon them, fury boiling in their blood. 

 

 

Wrath was honesty, unwillingly torn instead of wilfully given. It was secrets being spilled and truths being shared as lightning flashed. It was a chasm, the gaping void it rent between them. 

 

 

Wrath was the crescendo, poised and waiting for the fall. 

 

* * *

 

 

 _iv. Lust_ _(Dean & Aidan)_

 

Lust was the overflow, the spilling of rage across a fiery palette. It was when wrath and envy and desire clashed, and had no choice but to ignite. It was the high point of a crescendo, a stinging note that was fragile and just waiting to explode and descend into anarchy. It was an exploding star, taking over every sense and every thought and stripping them back to base level, taking away everything but animalistic instinct and carnal need. 

 

 

Lust was _Aidan,_ passionate to the core, leaving Dean a mess in his wake. 

 

 

Lust was strong hands pushing sleeves to elbows, predator stalking prey. It was hands fisting in his hair, yanking his head back, lips on his neck and his pulse throbbing underneath. It was hands clenching in shirts, breath misting windows, chests heaving and tongues searching. 

 

 

Lust was the sound of harsh panting, desperate moans and drawn out whines. It was a plea and an order, begging and giving. It was the sound of zippers being opened and discarded shirts colliding with bedside lamps. It was a desperate groan, whispered names and shouted profanities.

 

 

Lust was memory overriding as senses tried to keep up, as hands mapped and explored and mind tried to file away the details; the curve of ribcage, the taste of teeth and tongue. It was the feel of hair under fingertips, the sound of a moan when the hands tightened and pulled. It was biting, making marks; leaving evidence that was visceral and grounding. 

 

 

Lust was wet heat, tight and mind-blowing. It was resistance, a pinch of a brow and a clench of muscle, eyes worried as movement halted and hands stroked and reassured. It was acceptance, the sharp inhale and the smoothing of a frown as wonder overtook fear. It was legs hiked above hips as sweat slid down and spines arched; as hands scrabbled and eyes rolled. 

 

 

Lust was selfish, both of them taking what they wanted, anger still rich in their blood. It was hard and fast, bruises blooming on thighs and clavicles, evil smirks as pulses peaked and the race began. It was the moment of suspension where everything whited out and it was just them in the room and the consequence of action. 

 

 

Lust was the sound of the door swinging shut; the harsh reminder that to want was not the same as to need.

 

* * *

 

Present

_v. Greed (Dean)_

 

Greed is unexpected, a twisted take on the envy that had burned so bright. It’s the flaring of an itch thought satiated. 

 

 

Greed is satisfaction, victory; the knowledge of having unlocked a secret that no one else has. It’s smug, arrogant; smirks at the casual touches between friends, remembering the illicit ones that have occurred under the cover of darkness.

 

 

Greed is possessive, not wanting to share, not wanting to give; only wanting to _have._ It’s sitting next to Aidan during lunch so he can hear all of Aidan's conversations; waiting for Aidan after every take so he never misses a moment. It’s seething quietly for every _not tonight, I can’t stay._  

 

 

Greed is a creeping force, sneaking up on him as confidence fractures and insecurities grow. It’s thoughts turning black at every smile that isn’t aimed his way. It’s destructive, as he had known it would be. It’s whispers of _mine_ breathed into the curve of Aidan’s neck, it’s bruising hands that hold and never want to let go. It’s leaving marks in places Dean knows can’t be covered. It’s waking up and feeling the curl of discontent at the cold sheets beside him. It’s the never ending pain of the door swinging shut. 

 

 

Greed is the desire to seep into every crack of Aidan’s life so every beat of his heart thumps _Dean, Dean, Dean._ But more than anything, it’s the hatred of hope that festers in his mind and tells him that this is more than just friends who fuck. 

 

* * *

 

 

_vi. Gluttony (Aidan)_

 

Gluttony is insatiable. It’s kissing until lungs burn with the need for air and it’s suffocating in the heat of another person.

 

 

Gluttony is _this is the last time, just once more._ It’s hoping that this will be enough. It’s the door locking after it shuts behind him, telling himself he won’t be going back for more.

 

 

Gluttony is an addiction; Dean his drug. It’s the moments after they fall, lying shoulder to shoulder amongst crumpled sheets as static hums between them. It’s twitches of fingertips against fingertips that speak of the urge to grasp and hold. 

 

 

Gluttony is the forbidden fruit, the ultimate sin that reeks of temptation. It’s selfish; it’s telling himself that he can keep taking and there will be no repercussions. It’s lying to himself when he pretends like this isn’t something he needs, something he _craves._

 

 

Gluttony is indulgence, heady and intoxicating, filtering out through his lungs until every breath is tainted with the need for _more._ It’s heated stares between sets, minute changes in expression that lead to fumbled encounters in empty rooms and back closets.It’s not being able to concentrate on anything else, it’s fluffing his lines and doing take after take because he’s trying to ignore the way that Dean looks at him; tries to ignore the way his heart pounds as the gap between them widens and Dean screams _take my hand._

 

 

Gluttony takes over, an unrelenting pattern of shattered moans uttered in secret behind trailer walls. It's a flimsy wall, thrown up to protect the wavering emotions between them. It’s questions silenced with a kiss in the hope that that will keep them at bay. It’s the not-knowing, the partaking in questing hands and knees squeezing hips so that he doesn’t have to look any further into what this is or what they’re doing. 

 

 

Gluttony is the lie that allows him to keep believing he’s selfish, that it’s a physical need to fulfil that means nothing to him, that he keeps going back because _god_ it’s good and that’s all it is. It’s the sin which lingers in the mind, never silenced, never satiated. It’s the sin that means it’s already too late. 

 

* * *

 

 

_vii. Sloth (Dean)_

 

Sloth is complacency, warm content at the way things are and blind denial at how they’re changing. 

 

 

Sloth is the ghost of what could be. It’s liquid silk, running through his fingertips and impossible for him to grasp a hold of. It’s panic, tight in his throat at the thought of finality. 

 

 

Sloth is lazy fingertips tracing sternum and hipbone, it’s the fake aroma of serenity as he swallows around the words in his throat. It’s missed sunrises as he wallows in the cold of the empty space next to him on the bed, as the silence rings so loud. 

 

 

Sloth is the most wicked sin, for it lured him in under the false pretence of lazy mornings and the smell of coffee, when really it’s no more than the reflection of indolence and torpor. It’s _loneliness,_ it’s having but wanting more and being too afraid to lose what he already has. It’s a lie of contentment, but it’s so inviting, pulling him in and cradling him in apathy, whispering in his ear that it’s better this way. 

 

 

Sloth is the siren’s call, impossible to resist but knowingly the descent into disaster. 

 


End file.
